Category Archives: Fiction

My First Short Story has been published!

My first short story “Cycles” has been published today in The Absent Willow Review; a free online horror magazine. Cycles is a tale of a true-to-life vampire lost in New York City. Here’s a sampler and then you can click the link to give the story a read 🙂


The chair was cold against my skin, I couldn’t tell if it was wood or metal but it didn’t really matter. What mattered were the ropes binding my wrists and ankles to the damned thing and the gag in my mouth.  I couldn’t remember what had happened or where I was, my head ached though and I could feel a knot bulging out near my temple. Where was I? It was dark, so dark that I couldn’t even tell if my eyes were open or closed, not that it made a difference at all. Was I robbed? I tried to struggle in the chair to see if my wallet was in my pocket but I couldn’t tell. I was tied too tight to the chair.

The gag felt like some sort of cloth; my tongue flicked against it and immediately shrank away from the metallic taste of blood stained into the gag. I choked on its strength and tried to lurch forward but I couldn’t. Who did this to me I didn’t know, but more importantly I didn’t know what they wanted. Were they coming back? Were they even here? I couldn’t tell, but I felt the room shake, I assumed that was a nice side effect from the swelling bump on my head; probably a small concussion. I continued to gag on the blood in my mouth; if the person who had me bound here didn’t come back for me I was going to choke and suffocate on the cloth gag.

Read the rest here

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Another New Story: The Old Box

                                                                        The Old Box


by D.F. Rucci

I knew an old man, who lived in an old cabin. He would sit on his old chair, and think of the old days. His hair was gray, and his eyes were old and wise yet cold. For as each day came by, the blue in his pupils grew weary and gray. When he grew tired of sitting on his old chair, on the old porch which barely hung from the front of the cabin, he would bring himself inside it’s old frame.  The cabin was bare, as bare and cold as his lonely heart, nothing stood in its wall besides a small table, and an old box.

The box was made of wood and metal, and looked like a chest. For as long as the old man could remember, he remembered the box as something so valuable, so precious that he may never open it. He grew curious and he grew stubborn and he would trail his fingers over it’s course exterior, dreaming of what could be inside. His eyes would swell and his old fingers would fumble for its padlock, but he would never open it. It was forbidden to open the box, for the box was as old and weary as he was.

Times came slow, and slower as the winters take grasp of the forests around his cabin, keeping him from his old chair, on the old porch. Times like these he would find himself staring at the box, always staring at the box, for the box was ancient and wise and it was his box after all. When he would get especially lonely and bored he would polish his father’s old Winchester, careful as to avoid the deep red stains on it’s barrel. Such a thing was important, such a thing was there to remind him of the past, but he couldn’t remember. Didn’t want to remember after all, but he did want to know what was in that box.  Always what was in that box.

Sometimes at night, when he would lay on the old floor in his old cabin, he had dreams; rather nightmares that kept him awake most of the night. He thought of a young girl most of the time, he didn’t remember if he had known her or maybe he had just made her up, but she kept him up most of the time.  Whatever she was, she made him sad, bringing old tears to his old eyes, and still couldn’t recall anything. But whenever he thought of her, he thought of the Winchester and he wept. This never perplexed or confused him so to say, for it was the way it had always been, and once he grew disheartened he would forget soon after, most of the time anyway.

It happened one night after he had spent most of the time in his own old thoughts, that he stumbled over to the old table, which held the old box. With reddened eyes and trembling hands he shook the box and he yelled.  Cursing it, cursing whatever it held. His old voice quivered and he shook it with violent strength until the padlock broke free from the old box spilling it’s insides over the old table:

A pink ribbon, a gold ring, and a photo of a young boy and girl lay on the old table.  The Winchester cried out and the old man found peace.

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New Story: Vampyre

Here’s a new piece of flash fiction. Enjoy 🙂

It is humorous that money buys nothing in the end. We work for this paper our entire lives and when the end is near we lie there like any other and wait for fate to come down and shit on us. Believe me, I have climbed the ladders from scum to supreme, from poverty to powerful, from a New York City bum to a corporate entrepreneur with more money than the goddamn president; but as I write this down I am immortal. The blood that flows through my veins is not pure, but a coarse black serum that keeps my pale skin thriving in the dark.

My secretary had first introduced me to the treatment. When I had been diagnosed with cancer a year ago I’d given up. The doctor told me I had less than a year to live, that no treatment would remedy the affliction. The bastard gave me a Medical Marijuana card, and enough painkillers to drug a fucking whale.

“I got something” My secretary said nervously, rubbing his hands together. “Shipped straight from Asia, real weird shit.”

“If I’m looking to get high I’d just smoke the weed, Tom” I had told him and twirled a quarter on my desk.  “I need a cure. I have all the money in the world, but the doctors got nothing.”

“Nah, a friend from overseas told me about something that’s been passed around in the underground markets. People call it ‘Vampyre’.”


“Yeah as in ‘Vam-pire’. It comes in a fluid, you inject it and in three days the cancer will be gone.” Tom cleared his throat nervously. “But-“

“Side effects?” I asked.

“Typical bullshit- headaches, nausea, minor hallucinations, and in some of the cases death.” Tom paused.  “But that’s a small percentage of trials. “’Course it’s not FDA approved or nothing but I can get it in here in a week or two,”

That’s all I needed. I just needed to see a spark of opportunity, even if it were dim. I wouldn’t have cared if he were trying to pour rat poison down my throat, or inject cyanide in my veins. As the cancers swam through my veins each and everyday grew more dreary; more cold and hostile. I would eat my lunch at my desk and then stand tall and watch the world flutter by outside of the windowpanes. Sometimes I would count the snowflakes as they splashed against the glass and freeze. When each moment matters and death lingers at your doorway you have two options; to run away until it eventually finds you, or to jump into it and knock death on its ass. I chose the second path.

My secretary came to me one morning with this bottle of dark liquid. He placed it on my desk and dropped a black balloon and a syringe beside it. “Just like shooting dope,” He spoke as if it were nothing. I looked bug-eyed, but I let him tie my arm and inject the ‘Vampyre’ into my veins. It burned but then went cool as it climbed throughout my veins.  He found his way out of my office and I slit down the wall nearest my desk; my skin grew clammy and cold as my insides twisted and turned.  The morning came through the window but I shriveled away from the light of dawn, into a closet near the door. I didn’t leave my office for the last couple of days; I left my wife lonely at my home and my kids oblivious away at school. I cowered from the daylight and marveled in the shine of the harvest moon.

The cancer had subsided, and I watched the world at night through a thin glass array. To my family and friends I was a man who overcame cancer; but to me, I was Vampyre.

Sometimes I’m an Honest Writer

We all know the parental iron fist which crushes down on us when we’re young : don’t lie, and stop making up stories! That is a debilitating blow to the young psyche, why can’t I make up stories? Dreaming up imaginary tales are a necessary act of any writer who dreams to share his stories. Fiction is the act of making up stories, but I try to tell the truth when I do it.

Censorship is lame. When I envision a story in my head, I translate the story to the page just as I see it. If I have a prison inmate who yields from the a poor neighborhood and has a not-so-flattering personality, I’m not going to have him yell “o sugar!” Shit seems like the appropriate response. Sure, some folks may find the words offensive to them, but the story can’t be penalized to the whims of certain fragile eyes. I think we can all relate when watching an older movie, the dialogue is choppy and doesn’t seem real. Darn, dangit and sugar may be perfect phrases for your grandmother or an older character but a murderer most likely will never utter the words.

Racism, sexism and genuine strange points of view are not reflections of the author’s principles but of a true-blue created character. If you know J.T. Harren, an old-school detective with a chip on his shoulder is not a fan of homosexuality, blacks, and likes to beat his wife; working that into his persona will be beneficial to your readers. They will be able to acknowledge his ideas and bigotries.

As writers of fiction we must describe our imaginary worlds as truthful as lies may be.

Sorrows of the draft

Welp, if you’ve been following this blog over the last week you’ll notice that I mentioned I would post another story in the series. That’s where this post begins, I have gone back and edited the draft time and time again, but I still am not pleased. I have gone back and am now in the process of redrafting the series keeping Vinnie as the protagonist while introducing other worthwhile characters. I’ve been working on a way to launch it properly and effectively so that is why it has been delayed three times now 😛

Each story will be published 7pm on Tuesday every week. That following weekend I will be posting an audio version with full narration and sound effects for everyone. This will be a big project and I am doing my best to make it amazing. Tomorrow I will publish the sequel to Unlucky 7s, it is called Bullet from a Gravestone, and it will be a three part story. So that means that two stories will be up this week! Also tomorrow, I will shed more light on the series and will launch its own page on The Gray Pen.

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